


Impetus

by 16pennies



Category: Elisabeth - Levay/Kunze, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux
Genre: F/M, Oneshot, and then have it turn out waaay sexier than initially intended, bit more leroux based but this is a character story, if you want something done do it yourself, not complaining tho, so the details are generally pretty fuzzy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2020-09-06 22:15:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20298799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/16pennies/pseuds/16pennies
Summary: Christine, trapped in the house below the Opera, begs for a way to escape her angel-turned-demon. An old friend arrives to offer a very permanent solution, indeed. Christine/Death [technically crossover, but you don't need to know Elisabeth. Trigger warnings inside]Her gasp faded somewhere between her throat and her lips; it took but a moment to recognise that no, this was not Erik who had invaded the supposed privacy of her chambers, but a stranger, and yet one who provoked such profound peace that it did not occur to her to cry for help.“My dear,” he remarked, “you are upset.”





	Impetus

**Author's Note:**

> Is there really nothing for these two yet?
> 
> Trigger warnings: Vague suicidal ideation, seduction

Such beautiful furniture, surely designed to bring her comfort, and yet it only served to heighten Christine’s anguish, encourage the panic which trembled in her hands and shook her breaths. How could her deranged angel think that she would desire this? To _stay_ here? And how could she convince this man, this poor child who had been so long absent from the world of the living that he had forgotten all reason, that this was madness, that she must leave him? Or, perhaps, who had never had reason to begin with?

The elegantly decorated walls closed in upon her as she sat there upon the floor in a heap of petticoats, tears having long since run dry, too afraid to seek support from any of the furnishings for fear that touching them might make this nightmare reality. In her head, she heard her own increasingly desperate pleas fall upon oblivious ears, her hysteria rebuked with claims that he _loved_ her, that all of this was an act of affection and not hostility, that she was a welcome guest and not a prisoner here in this tasteful little room in this improbable house upon a lake many storeys beneath the opera house…

And she would not be able to show him the own ridiculousness in his words, she knew. No matter her distress, he would call her his silly little child, who would learn to embrace his love soon enough, and the most frightful thing of all was that she knew that to be true. If he truly kept her here, she would forget the rest of the world, the rest of her life. She would grow complacent and live out her days in a tranquil almost-contentment, with only her mad angel and his music for company.

Even now, a fraction of her longed to give in. It lay deep within her heart, waiting for her strength to subside long enough that it could bloom, turn her eyes glassy, her mind dull. Let everything be so easy…

No, no, _no! _That docile Christine frightened her more than anything, more than Erik’s fury should she try to defy him, perhaps even more than death itself.

The paralysis which stayed her limbs shifted from one of overwhelming fear to one of overwhelming calm. A stillness of decision relaxed the clenching of her muscles and the walls eased their suffocation, offering a new way out of this heaven-turned-hell.

He may have trapped her behind doors and beneath the earth, but she still commanded her own destiny in a way which he could never take away.

Her eyes cast about the room once again, though this time the furnishings appeared to her in a new light of brutal functionality, the mirror particularly recommending itself by the glint of its edge, until her gaze eventually landed upon the figure of a man gracefully reclined atop her bed.

Her gasp faded somewhere between her throat and her lips; it took but a moment to recognise that no, this was not Erik who had invaded the supposed privacy of her chambers, but a stranger, and yet one who provoked such profound peace that it did not occur to her to cry for help.

He met her stare with a smirk and a raising of his eyebrows, yet otherwise remained motionless as she surveyed him, the casual yet elegant way he held himself, the near inhumane beauty of his sharp features which seemed so at odds with those of her captor.

He said nothing as she evaluated him from her spot on the floor. She wished for him to speak, suddenly needed it more than anything, and yet the standard formalities sounded absurdly unneeded here.

Her voice, dry from hours of sobs, rang clear. “Hello.”

He responded with a sly tilt of his head and she wondered how the precision of that movement didn’t cause so much as a ripple through the material of his clothes. “My dear,” he remarked, “you are upset.” His voice, low and ethereal, swept across her like a balm, and she watched, fascinated by the mischievous little grin which toyed at his lips while he spoke. “Come, and tell me,” he instructed, and she did not think to do anything but stand and approach his outstretched arm. Christine perched herself at the foot of the bed, by his heels; the rustling of her skirts as her weight sank into the sheets complemented her sigh.

“He frightens me,” she whispered.

The creature on her bed chuckled richly. “I’m sure of it, my dear. I know him well, you know. Together we are old friends, he and I.”

“He wishes for me to stay. More than anything in the world, he wants me here. But I cannot!”

“No… no, of course you cannot. You were not made for a life such as this, were you?”

“He told me he was an angel,” her voice came as mere breath. “I believed him! How could I have believed him?”

“Is that what you desire, Christine? An angel? I have been called such before, you know.”

“I wish to _leave_.”

His touch upon her shoulder did not feel chilled like Erik’s, yet nor did it feel quite mortal. Behind her, she felt the shadow of his presence looming, yet when had he moved from the headboard?

“You wish to leave, Christine?” He repeated as his fingertips swirled lightly against her collarbone. “Then come away with me, my dear. I can protect you, believe me…” Pressure against her waist as his other hand curled around her side, splaying across her torso and holding her flush against his chest while his other hand continued its mocking dance toward her neck or her heart, she couldn’t be certain. Her eyes closed and her mind erupted into images of immortal contentment, colours she didn’t even know existed, all of them summoned by his touch, and so much more awaiting her if only she would agree...

“I will take you to places you never dreamed, my dear, teach you things not even your angel knows…” His lips replaced his voice, grazing the shell of her ear before questing down the slope of her neck. She wondered in near-delirium if he could taste her need for liberation on her skin; if he would taste like freedom himself. “You are quite the accomplished songstress now, my darling, but _oh_,” he purred against the tender crevice between shoulder and neck, his words sinking down beneath her flesh and pinning her to him. “You cannot imagine what music awaits you, beyond anything you have ever heard on Earth…”

_Yes, please… take me away…_ Like candlewax near the flame, her body gave way to his will, her head rolling across his collarbone before settling comfortably on his shoulder, exposing her throat for his murmuring lips.

“That’s it,” he coaxed, nearly growled, and his breath left hot stains on her skin. The hands against her corset grew firmer, keeping her safely in his hold, forcing her to listen to the seductive little promises he dropped into her ear. All her senses were awash in him, his voice and the touches of his fingers and mouth, the bridge of his nose pressed against her neck—she could imagine the elegant arch of it, the architecture of that face which was at once so foreign and yet so familiar—

The shadow of his cheekbones flickering in candlelight, the victorious smirk across his lips…

She knew him already. The memory had faded, frayed around its edges, but it had been _him_ that had stood over her father’s sickbed in the early hours of that winter morning. He had barely spared her little form a second glance, where she stood peeking between the cracked opening of the door, before disappearing into the night. The misty breath which left her father’s parted lips had been his last, and from then on, her life had lost its gleam, her sparkling childhood morphing into a grey adolescence, the magic never fully restored…

_No!_

Her nails clawed at the arms which held her captive, breaking herself free with a cry and stumbling to her feet. The blood in her heart now heated for a very different reason; she struggled to contain her breaths within the stiffness of her garments, her singer’s lungs now trying to break free of the whalebones as she had just liberated herself from the grip of Death.

“You took my papa away from me,” she hissed, “you will not have me, too! I forbid it!”

From his perch on the bed, he watched her with the same infuriating little smile. “Your father fought me, too, my dear, for so very long. What you saw that night was not the first visit I paid him.” Death stood, and the composure of his stance gave Christine the impression of a lithe predator preparing to lunge its prey. “And do you know why he turned me away?” He took one step nearer, his ice-like eyes pinning her, his voice infuriatingly tender. “For you.”

For all her blustering defiance, Christine could not move as he approached her with measured steps, paralysed as she was by the quaking emotion still possessing her and now the overwhelming sentiment provoked by the last memories of her father. She knew what Death would tell her now, could not bear to hear it, and yet would not dream of silencing him.

“He would not let me take him, _Little Lotte_, until he knew you would be cared for. You understand?” He stood so close to her, now, his chest nearly brushing her own, and though she could not move her eyes from his, she saw his hand come up to cup her jaw, his fingers losing themselves in her hair as his thumb brushed lightly across her chin. “He is waiting, you know. Come with me now,” he whispered, and his head bent down to hers, inviting her to meet him, “let me care for you as he wished, Christine…”

In his irises, she could see the triumph, the conviction that he had won her.

Christine pressed her lips together, remembered how nice his own had been along her skin, felt how easy it would be to tilt her head.

“I do not need your _protection_, monsieur.”

Death pulled back enough to meet her gaze, to see the spirit in her eyes, for her to see the perpetual amusement in his. “No,” he mused, “I suppose you do not. For now. But we will meet again, my dear.” For a moment, his gaze left hers to dart to the door. “If you do choose your angel, I imagine we will meet sooner than you may think.” His eyes returned to her and she wondered what he saw as he scanned her features with his smug little grin. “I will tell your papa he must wait a little longer, then.” And then his head ducked to hers again and she gasped as she felt an arm encircle her waist, squeezing her strongly against his chest as he pressed his cheek against hers, his lips finding their place against the shell of her ear as he whispered, “_Au revoir_, my dear.”

His thumb grazed her lips, the promise of a kiss yet to come.

When she opened her eyes, he had gone.

The room before her now seemed cavernous, the sweet little furniture pieces now quite tame after the ravishing presence of Death. Christine could only stand as she was and blink until reality seemed to restore itself correctly—as much as this little house below the ground feel like a reality at all.

Her reflection caught her eye, and she nearly didn’t recognise the flushed creature panting in the mirror. Her eyes glittered with fire, then narrowed as she comprehended the power she saw in them. This was not the tame young thing she was accustomed to meeting.

Erik was not acquainted with this woman, either, she thought. And in this moment, she would very much like him to be.

She did not bother to right her clothes or her hair, or to disguise the shameful blush which warmed her cheeks. Let him see her as she was, if he was so determined to keep her! Christine Daaé had never felt quite so exquisitely _alive_, and now Erik must face the consequences.

Death had given her the impetus to live.

**Author's Note:**

> Y'all please write more Elisabeth/Phantom stuff I'm telling you these stories were made for each other.
> 
> If you're in the mood for something morbid, check out my other Phantom story 'Kiss of Death' which was written ages ago, has absolutely nothing to do with Elisabeth, and yet works weirdly well as a sequel to this.


End file.
